Denim-Wrapped Daydream
by MeTheMagicalMuggle
Summary: Struggling to survive without his Grace, Cas faces the challenge of sleep while his mind does nothing but haunt him with past mistakes. Amidst the nightmares, he finds something better. Set in 9.09, "Holy Terror," spoilers until then. Doesn't "have" to be Destiel, more "implied Pre-Destiel. . . "


**A/N: This was supposed to be a comforting fic because the end of season 6 was the saddest thing EVER, but I'm confused about whether I achieved that. Sorry. Let me know what you think!**

 **_**

Castiel couldn't sleep. Since he'd met the Winchesters and discovered freedom, his life had been what he thought the humans called a "rollercoaster." The newfound uncertainty was a constant headache which had only grown worse after Metatron's theft of his Grace left him a mortal.

The human simplicity of his memory left him to linger on the "now." His depleted strength made him feel useless. Worst: his missing Grace meant he required sleep.

The last wasn't a battle fought by every human, he noted as he gazed across the room at the older of his Winchester friends. Dean had collapsed onto his queen-size bed and found sleep almost before his boots found the floor. Castiel knew the Winchesters' drive from Kansas had been long, and he assumed Dean had driven the length alone, since Sam was still out working the case.

His eyes lingered on his temporary roommate, noticing the familiar position he'd always seen Dean use in sleep: on his side, arms splayed out towards the center of the room. More often, that was where Sam slept, but it was where Castiel now struggled with the seemingly simple task of sleeping.

The open arms took him back to his night with April. A reaper sent to find and question Castiel, her memory still provided him comfort, the night with her being the last he'd slept with ease. But he was learning that he didn't belong anywhere, with anyone; even Dean had asked him to leave once before.

Thoughts of every wrong thing he'd done cascaded back to Castiel, and he turned from the neighboring bed to the ceiling, tortured by what he'd done to everyone, especially to Dean. Dean, who more than once had referred to Castiel as a brother, family. But Castiel had argued that he had no family, that Dean certainly wasn't it.

(He angrily flopped onto his stomach.)

But that wasn't him speaking, it was the million souls of Purgatory. . .

The souls _he'd_ summoned. The souls he'd agreed to split with the King of Hell, the souls Sam, Dean, and Bobby had warned about. The souls he'd used to fight his brothers and sisters, and the souls that had brought so much misery for so long after.

(He jerked the pillows around to cover his face.)

First, there was the year they'd all fought so hard against Dick Roman's leviathan takeover, then Castiel's unplanned trip to Purgatory with Dean. When Dean finally escaped and came home, it was to find an angel who continued interfering -- Dean worked to save the world; Castiel ignored God's will that he protect His creation.

(Twisted on the bed until he hung over the sides.)

And then. Then, he helped Metatron eject everyone from Heaven. After _he'd_ begun Its Civil War over the two archangels in the Cage, he'd foolishly believed he could fix Heaven.

(Threw his feet to the headboard and glared at the ceiling.)

While he'd been tricked about the spell, he had to admit that locking the angels in Heaven wouldn't have solved its troubles either. Yes, he would have prevented the deaths they were investigating now, but sparing only the _human_ lives. His brothers' fight would have continued had they been locked "upstairs." And every death would still be on him. For beginning that war against Raphael those three years ago. _Everything_ was his--

He finally stopped thinking.

He'd twisted and flipped, and turned and flopped, and Castiel found himself looking through the dim afternoon light at Dean Winchester, this time awake and staring back.

_

Dean woke slowly, trying to ignore the first squeaks and creaks he heard. He was tired after the drive from the bunker and wanted to sleep, dammit! He'd looked into several leads with Sam, but he and Cas had grown so tired they'd left Sam to finish, planning to regroup that evening. After tiptoeing around Sam-Zekiel for weeks, Dean had looked forward to his rest, whether it was on the amazing, memory foam mattress in his bedroom, or on the crappy, spring-filled noise machine of this motel.

He heard yet another creak. Dean opened his eyes and found himself glaring straight into those of his best friend. "Woah, Cas, what sort of dance you practicing over there?"

"No, I am not -- Did I wake you, Dean? I am very sorry if I did."

"Well, then, what? You said you were tired, we got us this room. You're human now, which means you _do_ sleep, not optional. So you can just quit watching me and close those eyes."

"Forgive me." Cas followed Dean's instructions and squeezed his eyes shut. In that vulnerable moment, Dean could see the fear and pain on the ex-angel's face.

 _No chick-flick moments, no chick-flick moments, no chick-flick--_ Screw that, he was starting one. His friend was obviously troubled. . . "Cas, buddy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, Dean, I am fine," came muffled from the other bed, as Cas had turned to face the wall and his twisted pillow.

Dean debated staying put for a second, then dragged himself from the warmth of his blankets to Cas's side. If asked, he would've told anyone he was doing his duty (as a natural-born human) to explain to the ex-angel that he'd never be comfortable until he fixed that pillow. Honestly though, his friend was upset, and even if it took a chick-flick moment to do so, he was going to find out why.

"Cas, hey, it's not 'nothing.' Your bed's been shaking since we came in, and if I didn't know better, I'd say you've been having a lot more fun than we should be right now."

That didn't earn him even the sarcastic laugh it would have with Sam, and Dean realized he'd probably only confused his friend. Awesome. He'd initiated a chick-flick moment, and with Cas, it would have to be the most straightforward one ever.

A straightforward chick-flick talk with Cas's back, because he'd turned away _again_. He now almost wished Sam-Zekiel were here to lend support. He sat behind Cas and tried again. "What I meant was --"

"It is all my fault."

"Wait, what? Cas, you didn't kill these angels. Caribou's nowhere near where you've been. . . You stayed in Idaho before, right?"

"No, Dean. Not this case. Everything. I was the one who caused the angels to fall. I made this mess when I wanted to fix my past mistakes. I failed you." He mumbled into the room.

His confusion cleared up quickly and Dean now knew just what he needed to do: tell the truth. "Cas, I don't blame you for the angels falling. I told you that before. Well, tried to tell you, at the hospital with Sam. Guess my prayer never reached you, huh? . . . But you've gotta believe that _I don't blame you_. I've said it before, we can work through this together, all right? Just trust me and Sam, 'cause we're not gonna let you down. Promise." Struck by sudden inspiration and knowing there was already no returning from this chick-flick scene, he searched for Cas's hand. "See, I _pinky_ promise!" He declared cheerfully as he raised their joined fingers. Of course, after his search for Cas's hand, he now lay half across the man.

Close enough to hear when he whispered, "You did say you were there to help, and I said I could win by fighting everyone, including you."

They both knew everything those words meant. Dean was hit by the realization that he'd never properly forgiven Cas. He'd only _agreed_ when the angel claimed he sensed Dean's forgiveness, before they invaded Roman's SucroCorp. "You know I forgave you, right?" He murmured near his friend's head. "I always just wanted you to come back to us, Cas." He was fully hugging his friend now. "I was wrong to hold that grudge, and I should've cared when you were broken and had to lean on Meg. Hell, I should've let you get that friggin' _cat_. Not like a pet would've hurt Rufus." He paused before forcefully saying, "Bobby's death wasn't your fault either. That's how he was always going to go, besides the extra time in the hospital. He sure didn't hold it against you; he stayed for Dick."

Dean chuckled with Cas at the thought of Bobby evading a reaper because of a man named Dick, and gratefully pulled Cas into a tighter hold. His friend had finally relaxed, and Dean was happy he seemed to have helped.

Dean knew that within a couple hours, Sam would be returning to brief them on any new findings in the case. He could expect Ezekiel to order Cas away again, and he realized that the first time had to be one of the reasons for the sudden insecurity he'd observed. They would inevitably have to part, but Dean hoped Cas would remember that he and Sam would always face anything with, or for, him. He closed his eyes, never letting go.

_

Dean forgave him. Of course, Dean wasn't the only person his errors had affected, but it was significant nonetheless. Sam and Dean had always held such importance, and he smiled to know Dean forgave his actions.

Castiel burrowed into the hunter's hold, coming across the usual jeans, and remembered the time someone _else_ was wrong. The King of Hell had talked about not underestimating these "denim-wrapped nightmares." Though Castiel happily admitted that the two hunters did make it through a lot, the wording was inaccurate. . . A _reverie_ , maybe. Perhaps a _daydream_. Only something that warm and happy could cut through his true nightmares, letting Castiel finally fall asleep.


End file.
